


Hilf Mir

by rainonmyback



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Character Study, Delusions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hallucinations, Lobotomy, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Schizophrenia, kind of???, kinda sad a little, schizophrenic author before u suspect anything lmao, schizophrenic medic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:48:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29814174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainonmyback/pseuds/rainonmyback
Summary: Being a medical professional, it is key that a doctor keeps good communication with his patients. That being said, Ludwig doesn’t think the organs should be talking to him.
Relationships: Heavy/Medic (Team Fortress 2), kinda ?????? very tiny bit
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	Hilf Mir

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii schizophrenic medic should be canon - a schizo lol <3

Being a medical professional, it is key that a doctor keeps good communication with his patients. That being said, Ludwig doesn’t think the organs should be talking to him. No, that shouldn’t be a normal occurrence. Nor should the walls bend, or the shadows reach out to him. But, hey, if he was truly concerned, he would’ve started on the pills he was prescribed years ago when he was in medical school. 

\--

“--And then his liver ran away!”

That was a good one. The story of one of his first patients. Poor bastard. 

“What are you talking about, Doktor?”

Misha stood at the doorway, hand carefully on the wall. He always looked cautious, polite. As if Ludwig could ever _not_ let him in. But didn’t he let him in, this morning? He could’ve sworn he did. They shared tea, or something. Ludwig also told him the story of the horse woman. That was another good one. 

Didn’t he see him before? 

The shadows flickered against the floor, almost as if they were sighing. Which one was Misha’s?

“Huh?” Is all the doctor could let out, hand now rubbing the back of his neck. Surely flushed. _Oh, this is embarrassing._

Misha seemed to understand. Misha always understands. He walked into the lab, giving Archimedes a little wave. The bird cooed back, nestled into his tiny pillow. The one Ludwig made for him as a Christmas present. _Spoiled baby._

“So,” Misha said, taking a seat, “what is this about running livers?”

The Medic smiled as he began the tale again. 

\-- 

Scout needed something. He was sure of it. Because Scout’s face looked annoyed (well, more than usual) and he rarely comes to visit. Unless there’s something that’s needed, of course.

Medic could hear the younger man’s voice, but the words scrambled to find his ears. 

_Head… I … Need …_

_Doc._

That’s the word that kept repeating, accent thick and strained. Tired, almost. Over and over again. 

_Doc…_

_Doc…_

_Doc…_

Omitting from the walls, the ceiling. Hell, even from his own mouth, mumbling it as the mantra kept on playing. 

“ _Doc!”_ Scout actually shouted. The words were smaller now, still repeating. The doctor shook his head a little as Scout huffed, “Do you have the ibuprofen or not?”

Ibuprofen. Ibuprofen? 

“Ibuprofen?” Medic repeated for the third time. Scout was looking at him now. Well, he was staring the entire time, but now he was _looking_. That look that everyone gets. 

“For my head…?” Scout said slowly. Medic quickly fetched a few pills for him. He looked at them. Then looked at them again. Ibuprofen. 

Scout shuffled in his stance instead of leaving immediately. That look on his face. 

“Uh, are you gonna be okay?”

_What._ Oh, _Gott_ , no. Not that shit. It made the doctor’s throat feel itchy, his skin tingled as well. Nerves. Fucking _nerves,_ squirming inside.

“Yes, quite.”

Scout didn’t look convinced. Scout didn’t look like Scout at all, actually. Just a face, staring at him like the civilians back home did. Like his fellow peers in school did. Like his family did. Wide eyed, examining. Wondering. Pondering on what to do. How to go about it all. 

_Don’t do anything._

_Don’t do anything to me._

Instead of saying that, Medic cleared his throat, “Well, that ibuprofen should do the trick. Feel free to come back if you need to.”

A few beats of silence. Bad. It felt very, very _bad._

“Yeah.”

Scout made his exit. But his shadow stayed. 

\--

An hour until battle. Everyone was gathering, or touching up their things, or joking around. Jane was raving about slaughtering maggots. Tavish’s laugh boomed through the hall.

Ludwig was trying to feel his hands. They were wrong. 

Very, very wrong. Not in a phantom limb way, nor in a way that could be classified as rash or aliment. 

Just wrong. Not good. 

_Not his._

He rubbed them. The gloves weren’t on. Ludwig can’t bring himself to put _his_ gloves on _not-his_ hands. The skin ached a little, knuckles reddening. He was rubbing too hard.

Misha at some point came, his own hand gently placed onto his shoulder. A big, strong hand. Real. Warm, too.

“What’s wrong?”

Ludwig hates that kind of question. But, with Misha’s softened expression, thoughtful and kind, he couldn’t feel annoyed. He didn’t stop rubbing. Got faster even. Rougher.

“These hands.” Ludwig answered. 

Misha’s eyebrows lowered, “Your hands?”

_No. No. No._

_No._

“They aren’t mine.” the doctor didn’t mean for it to come out as shaky as it did. Was there blood? Was skin broken? He rubbed faster.

_These aren’t my hands._

Did he say that out loud?

Misha’s hand grabbed one of them, halting the aggressive rubbing. He gently stroked the knuckles with his thumb. They stung.

“If we were strangers, I’d still know you were a Doktor,” Misha said, voice low, like a purr, “because of your hands. They’re good.”

Misha continued the soothing motions. Ludwig let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

_Misha said they’re good hands. His hands. My hands. They’re mine. Misha said so._

A voice jumped in with his thoughts. Like a slap.

_Do you trust him?_

Ludwig looked at Misha, who was still soothing the hands. _His hands._

_Yes._

An announcement played. Five minutes till battle. 

\--

_There’s something wrong with him._ That’s what that place told him. Those doctors. His weeping Mother. Those walls, all bare and too thick to hear anything else but the clicking of nothing and the mouths of many.

Isn’t the basis, the very core, of practicing medicine, to help others? 

Help. Such a funny word, how people have the tendency to bend it, twist it to whatever they deem useful. 

Help. The doctor, smelling of bleach and whatever liquor he’d been guzzling down that afternoon, had said the operation was going to help him. 

Help. The nurse was tired, overworked and underpaid. Germany’s economy was in ruin, and so were everyone’s souls. She stood with a shake as Ludwig begged her to tell him what the operation was. He remembers her voice, velvet and cigars, but still broken all the same. 

Lobotomy. Next Tuesday. 9 AM sharp. 

_Help._

He still can’t really understand how he escaped. That Monday had been particularly delirious and muffled, probably due to the mix of medicines and asbestos exposure. Mad houses really _are_ , well, _maddening._ Who would’ve thunk. 

But Ludwig _did_ escape, climbing up and jumping off the fence, into the night. Cold German streets, not a person to ask for anything. He had run and run and run, joints aching and flesh windburnt. The whole _I’ve just escaped an asylum because they were going to scoop a bit of my brain out because I see and hear and think things_ was not a good look. He kept a low profile. 

Help. A doctor’s duty. That’s not exactly what he does either, though, in all fairness. Hypocrite that he is. But he likes to help. Likes giving Scout pain meds and Soldier a high-tech hearing aid. Fixing Archimedes’ wing when he sprained it. He likes doing that, blood and guts and gorey discoveries aside. 

Help.

What even is help? What’s it good for?

“Thanks for tha’ help, doc.” Demoman smiles, patting down his wrapped knee. He smiles back. 

_Ah._ That. 


End file.
